


san-centric oneshots

by Anonymous



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: AUs:, Alpha Kim Hongjoong, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Gang World, Bottom Choi San, Choi San-centric, Hanahaki Disease, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Omega Choi San, One Shot Collection, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26741656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: a collection of oneshots focused on ateez's san.tags will be updated with ships and aus, while more detailed content warnings are included in the notes of each chapter. rated m for some chapters, but t for most.
Relationships: Choi San & Everyone, Choi San/Everyone, Choi San/Kim Hongjoong, Choi San/Park Seonghwa
Comments: 8
Kudos: 87
Collections: Anonymous





	1. sanhwa hanahaki + mythology au

**Author's Note:**

> i've been thinking about a lot of san-related ideas lately, so i figured i might as well make a collection for all of them! posted anonymously for now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _notes:_ hanahaki disease au, hades and persephone au, angst with a happy ending, trans character  
>  _word count:_ 7.5k  
>  _rated:_ t  
>  _cw:_ mentions of blood, some transphobia and misgendering, unhealthy familial relationships
> 
> one day i was thinking about how hanahaki disease could play into other aus i’m fond of and ended up immediately connecting the idea of “person a thinks they’re dying from hanahaki when they’re actually experiencing the symptoms that come with being the reincarnation of a flower god” to sanhwa bc they’re my favourites <3
> 
> i didn’t really do any research on the actual myths featured here, i just kind of played around with whatever ideas i could come up with on my own. also this might have been long enough to post on its own but it's so messy and unedited that i decided against it ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

something is wrong with san.

well, needless to say, there wasn’t quite much right to begin with. delirious with an affliction only known as unrequited love, his members had grown used to watching their once overly energetic san melt into a more secluded figure. it was unnerving, at first, how quickly san’s mood began to sour. but there’s something much worse making it’s way up his throat.

-

bouts of insomnia aren’t unusual for idols. the stress of the constant training and scrutiny is bound to leave a mark. san is, unfortunately, no exception to this rule.

on one of those many nights, unable to sleep and also not at the stage where he was ready to admit it was seonghwa's fault, he had hid himself away in the kitchen, tucked between cabinets, bare legs chilled by the cold tile flooring. not exactly comfortable, he’d be the first to admit, but it was better to linger there than possibly disturb anyone else from their precious moments of rest.

he was left with nothing to do but scroll through social media for a while, busying himself with one of the few readily available distractions that didn’t make much noise, with a plushie pushed beneath his chin and his knees pressed up to his chest. while he certainly wasn't and still isn’t fluent in another language, he had a good enough grasp to scroll through some fanmade musings. 

someone had posted a picture of seonghwa and he, a photograph he could say was taken well with good intentions, but the sight of it had something wrong and raw settling uncomfortably in his throat. san’s eyes burned from the glare of the phone screen but his gaze had lingered, never wavering from the pair of them - seonghwa glowing under the shine of the sun and san stuck beneath the shade, seonghwa surrounded by nature and san enclosed in nothing but darkness.

one of the many tweets beneath it said they looked like a pair of mythical lovers, perfectly encapsulating the myth of hades and persephone. their fans had always enjoyed silly little ideas like this, alternate universes where the members were gods instead of idols. he’d never been an expert in those kind of things, but he understood most of their choices. their leader glows bright enough in the sunlight when performing the music of his own making to be apollo, after all. 

but seonghwa being marked as persephone had made his stomach turn for reasons he could not understand. it felt almost taunting, as if they were tilting san as the monster in another classic story of stockholm syndrome, and san was almost offended that they’d consider that god a fitting choice. but that offence did not feel as if it was drawn from the darker hints of that myth, but rather that he couldn’t help but feel that they had attached him to the wrong side of the story.

something was drawing him towards that story. he didn’t quite understand the feeling spilling over inside of him, searing through his lungs and clawing at his neck. he spent the last remaining hours before the sun began to rise through the gaps in the curtains to obsessively scroll through flower meanings and escaped back to his shared room reluctantly before anyone noticed his absence from his bed.

san had failed that time to find the blood-stained petal that had drifted like a warning to the floor below, but next time he wouldn’t be in the position to be so blind. 

-

there might be something wrong with seonghwa, san thinks. 

it’s a begrudging thought, admittedly. the elder is always willing to put on such a spotless facade to not worry the members under his care and san usually likes to delude himself that seonghwa is nothing more than perfect and untouchable. it stops him from fretting too much over his hyung, prevents him from being swept away in his concerns when the managers would scold him for thinking too much. 

but it is becoming more obvious and san can barely swallow it. seonghwa’s skin, constantly under the harsh summer sun as they travel to music shows and magazine shoots, has begun taking on a sickly shade. he is still softly tanned, but there’s something about him that seems almost hollow in colour, barely saturated, as if the life has started to sink out of him.

everything seems sharper - the edges of his cheekbones, the curve of his shoulders, the harsh darkness spreading over his eyes. his gazes are harder, tinged with a maturity that goes beyond his years. san cannot quite understand where the other’s once vibrant energy has wandered off to, but he forces down the worthless words of comfort and focuses on pulling seonghwa into his and wooyoung’s schemes. it seems to drag the other out of his own head, if only for a little while, so san thinks it’s beginning to work.

it’s strange. the others swear their eldest is becoming tenser with time, more intimidating in the roughness of his frown, but san just feels enthralled all the same. there’s something almost natural about the changes, as if it was only inevitable in the end. he is still san’s favourite hyung, even he’s beginning to mold into a different shape, and that’s all that matters.

-

one night, he dreams that he is standing in a field of flowers that rise above his dirt-stained knees, head tilted up to the skies, hand above his eyes to block out the sun. 

something feels slightly off. his hair falls around his shoulders, too long for comfort, and he can feel the brush of the vines tangled in the strands stroking the back of his neck. the field is empty, mostly empty, except for passing birds and he himself, fingers clutching onto unfamiliar flowers that seem half-made. he turns and there’s a man there, standing by the riverbank, staring at him from the distance. he cannot see the man’s face, but he smiles all the same, arms too stuffed full of his own creations to wave in a friendly manner. his dimples dig into his cheeks and the man pauses, almost as if the man is shocked by something he cannot witness, before the man is swallowed up by darkness and vanishes, as quickly as he could blink.

he is soon surrounded by his brethren, fellow spirits too tied to nature’s roots spending their days crafting flower crowns, although there is an uncomfortable undercurrent to their usual gossip. a human had wandered too far from their abode and was torn to shreds by a creature’s wrath, they say, murmuring about how it’s blood had filfthied the nearby streams. his mother clears her throat, breaking apart the rumours with a single move that tells them to shut their mouths, and they settle back into an uneasy silence. he hates it. at least on his own, the sound of the river running was peaceful, but amongst these people, it is deafening in the worst ways.

his mother slinks behind him, removing the dying plants that dig into his skull and moving to instead braid newly cut roses into his hair, murmuring one of her many, many warnings. _the judge of souls has visited our land today_ , she whispers, tugging a little too hard at the tangled strands, and he winces, still not used to her harsh treatment even after all this time. _it was not a usual case, so he collected the thing himself. while there will not been another time where he can be near to you, you must promise me, kore. promise me that you will not approach him, for he only brings darkness in his wake_. 

_i promise_ , he reluctantly replies, although his lips are twisted into a petulant pout his mother cannot see. he’s admittedly a little too curious. everyone speaks unforgiving words of the ruler of the underworld, but in turn they speak far too kindly of the monsters perched on olympus’ thrones. his father had pillaged through villages, ruining the entire existences of woman upon woman, not caring for anything but his own never-ending lust. his mother does not believe his own words when he insists he is her son. he wonders if that man, the one with dark hair who could not tear his eyes away from him, who he knows now not to speak of in his mother’s presence, would believe him in her stead. 

his mother had been protective since birth, somehow he knows it to be a fact. her touch lingers too long on the base of his spine before dragging her nails across his sensitive skin, twisting the fragile curve of his thin limbs. _i will never let them touch you_ , she whispers, fervently. somehow it sounds a lot more like _i will never let you breathe_.

san wakes up gasping for air, with nightshade petals dotted over his pillow, blood scraped along the thin fabric and the soft lining of his lips. he does not understand where they came from. he convinces himself it’s just a fluke, maybe a symptom of being half asleep, and he sweeps the things away without a second glance. he will not be so optimistic next time. 

-

another night, a week having passed by since nightshade stained his skin, he finds himself yet again in that same field, knee deep in grass filled with newly budding flowers of all shapes and sizes. somehow, he knows time has passed since the last time he was here, not just a few hours, but continuous days and nights where his heart yearned out for any reprieve from his mother’s claws.

a man with slicked-back dark hair and even darker eyes slips out of the shadows beneath the nearby trees that line the edges of the riverbank. the nymphs tied to those branches slumber in the night silence, unaware of the powerful aura crashing through their forest, for both he and the man know better than to cause too much noise. 

his typically nimble fingers turn clumsy under the man’s fond gaze, unused to scrutiny that does not come alongside malice or his mother breathing down his neck. the man just laughs at the sudden tremors running through his hands, although it seems less condescending and more so soft, as if he finds his nervousness endearing. the man guides him through weaving a crown of dainty daisies, the man’s larger hands blanketing his, before softly placing it on top of sun-kissed hair. 

_you were daydreaming again. what is it you are wishing so intensely for?_ the man asks, the sharp edges of his business-ready smirk melting into a genuine and warm smile. the man carefully picks a daffodil from the bunch spread across the field, delicately, as if it’s too precious to be burned by his shadow-stained touch. fables had sworn this man to be a sinner of the highest degree, and yet he refuses to burden his love with the loss of any of his creations.

he hums at the question, wishing to say so much, wanting for once to spill his guts. but he has so little time on his hands, for as soon as his mother finds his bed woven of wheat and vines empty of any life, her chosen guardians will come scurrying to find him. it will do him no favours to be found frolicking through the flowers with the gods’ least favourite brethren. he can’t help but feel envious of the nymphs, for they may too exist only to his mother’s whims, but at least they have the illusion of choice. _above all else, i wish for freedom. i have nowhere to run, since she would tear apart the world if i ever become lost from her sight_.

 _and if there was a place you could go where she could not follow?_ the man replies, raising an eyebrow. it’s just like the man to attempt to be so cryptic, although they are both fully aware of the intentions behind his words. 

_then i would travel to that place in a heartbeat_ , he replies, smiling so knowingly. _i’m sure the underworld is eagerly awaiting another monarch to stand by it’s king_.

 _run away with me, then_ , the man says, raising the other’s hand and brushing his cold lips over his knuckles. it’s not a question, but not a command either. a proposal that means more than words can say, offering him the only chance of escape he has ever faced in however many years he has been stuck in these never-ending woods. he has been cornered ever since his birth, trapped behind invisible walls, gated in with no exits, and this man is the only one who can open the door out of his own personal hell. 

_but i will be lonely without my flowers, won’t i?_ he sighs, but it is all for show, for he is smiling so openly, dimples and all. their future together is a forgone conclusion, not only because of his selfish needs to breathe again, but also because he has never felt his heart race so rapidly with anyone but this man. he does not know what love feels like, not when his mother’s imitation of it is suffocating, clogging his lungs and throat with endless streams of flowers and unfulfilled promises, but he thinks he knows affection when he looks up into the man’s dark eyes. 

_then we shall take them with us, for gods knows the underworld needs it_ , the man says and he in turn tilts his head in confusion as the man reaches out and runs his fingers over his cheek. then there is a rumble rising in the air, shaking the trees till their leaves tumble down, ground cracking beneath his feet, collapsing beneath them. he clings onto the man’s neck, shrieking in excited surprise as the man chuckles at the panic in his eyes, blossoms tumbling past them into the abyss.

san awakens, hand reaching into the air, as if to curl around the back of a man who does not exist outside of his own head. there are tears streaking down his cheeks alongside the blood that spills from the corner of his mouth. he’s overcome with an overwhelming sense of loss, like something great and unreachable has slipped from his fingertips. he cannot remember ever feeling as content as if he did in the land of his own dreams, held in the inviting embrace of a man whose face he cannot remember now. 

he rises up onto his elbows, desperately scrubbing at the tears with the sleeve of his fur-lined robe. a dull kind of melancholy thrums beneath his skin, rattling his bones and tearing at his heartstrings, and all of a sudden, a part of him wishes to break down. he’s been good at controlling his own emotions, for the most part, something primarily born out of not wanting to burden the older members with his meaningless worries when they’ve already got five other kids to look after. he’s sat through each and every overboard criticism netizens have thrown at him with a dimpled smile, and yet now, he’s cracking under the pressure of a dream that wasn’t even a nightmare. 

san doesn’t make a single noise. he can’t afford to, not when yunho is slumbering in the bunk below him, and he doesn’t think he can even manage a single sob, not when his throat feels so strangely sore. but he can gasp when his tired gaze lands on the bloodied spot beside him. san thought he had hallucinated them the first time, and he figured much the same this time. but he can touch them, brush his fingertips over the petals that must have fallen from his lips. they are yellow this time, just like the flower that man had held in his bony hands, only they are no longer illuminated in the shine of the moon, spotlessly clean, but rather muted in the dim morning light and soiled with san’s own blood. 

it’s a mindless action to look for answers. no one will be able to offer him salvation. searching _i’m coughing up flowers_ will only provide him with a phone number for the nearest mental health service, but his trembling hands still scramble for his phone. san can barely manage to press the right keys, not when the tears that won’t stop are blurring his eyesight, but he manages to fumble his way through a semi-coherent sentence.

 _hanahaki disease_ flashes up on his screen and san tilts his head in confusion. the combination of words faintly rings a bell, as if it is something he stumbled across when stalking fan pages. he taps on the first available link and the words swim across his screen, paragraphs he can barely decipher because of his emotional state becoming unclear under his inattentive stare. but he manages to catch a brief bit - _hanahaki disease is a fictional illness in which the victim coughs up flower petals due to their unrequited love_. 

and then suddenly, it clicks. the hand holding his phone drops to his side and he falls back into the plush of his bed, throwing an arm over his face as if it alone could block out the flash of seonghwa’s glowing smile that burns over his closed eyelids. of course. it could only be his unrequited and unconditional feelings for _him_ that is the focal point of whatever is messing with san. all of the anxieties he had faced, the worry over practice and the progression of his skills, the concern he held for his dearest members - that had been normal. whatever is happening now is anything but.

the only possible answer to so many of san’s questions is fictional. he smothers the hysterical laugh that comes without warning with the back of his hand, digging his teeth into the skin in an attempt to shock himself back down to earth. it does nothing. this is not a dream inside of a dream. his eyes flutter back open to the same dorm room ceiling, the same sounds of one of the other members scurrying around outside still echoing around their shared space. he doesn’t believe it, but what other option is there to believe in? this is laughable and yet it is real all the same. it’s san new reality and he is drowning in it. 

he tries to convince himself it won’t happen again. he’s wrong and he knows it, can sense the petals already settling in the bottom of his worn lungs, can feel the blood pooling in his throat. but what else can he do? he’s run out of hope. maybe once is just an incident and twice is just a coincidence. but then what is three? a pattern that cannot be ignored. and the third incident will come soon, just as the fourth will, and then the fifth, as the petals chase behind.

-

the dreams never stop coming.

in one, he’s on a boat beside dozens of hazy spirits, flickering in and out of existence every time he blinks, their ghostly forms too young to stabilise just yet. that man - his almost husband, he reminds himself giddly, as if he’s a lovestruck teenager experiencing his first taste of love - had been buried in his duties, and so he had taken the opportunity to experience the journey that all other souls who arrive in the underworld experience. 

_you ran away from your family?_ the ferryman asks. his tone is not judgemental, although he’d appeared less than pleased by one of the earth’s gods jumping onto his boat without warning. the ghosts beside them have no mouths to speak, but their eyes do linger on him with intrigue. they may not truly recognise the sheltered child of demeter, but there is always the possibility that one of them had prayed to his shrine. _no god that graces olympus will believe that_.

 _i did not leave behind a family_ , he murmurs, skimming his fingers gently over the rickety boat’s edge. flowers bloom in the cracks in the wood, their stems dragging along the darkened waters, and he watches with a fond smile as one of the youthful ghosts stares at them in wonder. _i escaped my captor. there is a difference there, not that any of them will ever comprehend such a thing_.

his tale is his own to tell, but he knows his mother will make sure to malform it. she will forever see him as nothing but a puppet under her control, sweet little subordinate kore who would never disobey her orders. she’ll spin a story of daughters stolen away in the middle of the night, tearing apart the sea and the skies to convince her siblings to help drag him back out of the abyss. he no longer has the energy left in him to care about her dramatics. he tumbled into the underworld of his free will, clutching desperately to hades’ cloak. that is his truth and he’ll always stick to it. 

the curtain falls and the scene changes. another restless night, another vision of another life. he wears a crown forged of thorns, of wilted petals and overgrown roots. the man by his side wears one of bone, encrusted with dark gems that glow low in the dim light. the underworld is dark, blacker than black, dripping in sin, and yet it is the only home he has ever truly known. together, they make a fitting pair. isolated, drained of all life, burned by the fire of olympus’ greed. the man may seem imposing, but he gazes so lovingly, locks no doors in the sprawling hallways of his castle, is willing and ready to offer that eagerly awaited freedom. 

a man with wings strapped to his ankles delivers a note one morning. or is it night? he can barely tell the difference between dawn and dusk here, when the sky above never changes in shade, but somehow this space that exists to be stagnant feels a lot more open than the world above ever did. the newcomer hums thoughtfully when he comes across a man with flowers woven into his slowly darkening hair resting peacefully in the comfortable embrace of the ghostly king. _they already speak ill of this union_ , he warns. _although they do believe kore to be a virginal flower, a woman stolen by hades. gods, what was demeter thinking?_

 _you know that i have never cared for their words_ , the man smirks, petting the head of the god curled up in his arms. it’s a strangely domestic affair, one that will never match the picture that the gods will paint for them, that their devoted followers will earnestly believe in, something that will haunt their story for decades to come. _i will not begin caring for them this century, nor the next_. 

_my mother believes a lot of things_ , he murmurs, lips forming a cruel imitation of a smile. if his mother could see him now, she surely would malfunction at what he has become. manipulation is in his blood now. he no longer has the patience to be polite. _and the gods will believe her in turn. there is nothing that could cure her hubris and they will follow along blindly, like moths guided to a flame. their ignorance will only burn them eventually_.

he could not discern the winged man’s expression, for san wakes with little but blurred memories of these strange dreams. every time he thinks too hard about trying to make out those distant features, his head starts to pound, as if he is on the cusp of remembering something very important. but that voice is etched into his mind and he can hear it echoing through his ears, even hours after sleep has abandoned him. it’s oddly familiar, deep and rich, a low tone he cannot place, that mirrors the sound of seonghwa singing along in the practice room to whatever song pops on the radio.

in another dream, he gazes at himself in a mirror edged with crimson velvet. his frame has not changed much, as his mother never allowed him to skip their tasteless meals and that habit is engraved into him now. after all, the food here is much richer, filled with flavour, and his husband is always ready to feed him bite after bite. but his skin is somehow a much healthier shade deep in the depths of hell, almost golden, even though the sun does not grace this place. his eyes had once been as green as summer grass and his hair had shone under helios’s attention. now, his eyes a slowly growing darker, a warm shade of brown, and his hair is much the same, bordering on black except for the small remaining blonde edge above one brow, short after he allowed chunk after chunk of it to fall into the river styx. he no longer looks like demeter’s daughter and he thrives on it.

the man notices his distracted expression and fits himself into the dip of his back, chin hooked over broad shoulders, curled a strand of hair around his pale finger. the man’s sharp nose trails over the curve of his neck before the man presses his lips solidly on one of the many freckles there. all the anger drains from him and he sighs, leaning back into the affectionate touch as if it’s the tether holding him back from being completely swallowed by his fury. yet, despite the softness, this time san had awoken with a rose bloomed up his throat, the petals completely soaked in blood, the thing stuck there as he frantically chokes, watching red stain the edges of the bathroom sink. he tries not flinch hours later when the stylists dye a stripe of gold through his hair. 

the next dream is harsher, tinged with grief and loss and the mourning of one who has lost their lover. he is standing in a desolate field, the land patchy with feeble wheat and bearing little fruit for the human’s labour. his skin has not seen the sun in what feels like eons and it burns, almost as much as the reddened soreness around his eyes. fainly, he recognises that his cheeks are stained with tears and faintly, he recognises that the greed of the woman on her knees before him is the source of such woe. _i never said i went unwillingly_ , he speaks, voice firm, unwilling to waver. 

_he stole my child from me_ , she grovels at his feet, clutching at his robes, clawing for his affection. he just stares down at her impassively, watching the woman deny her own ruin. there’s conviction in her words. she believes everything she says, even if she is placing her belief in lies. _you have been brainwashed, my kore. that man has deluded you_.

 _i am no one’s property to be stolen_ , he warns her. _you would do your best to remember that. i will stay on this land, as you desire, for the people supposed under your care deserve more than this destruction. but i will not stay forever, for i am bound to him for all eternity_. after all, he had gorged himself on the seeds of the pomegranates littering the underworld’s only garden for this very purpose. it was maybe an underhanded scheme to have him forever tied to the realm beneath this field, but it was one of his only options.

he spends night upon night in those fields. they become alive again beneath his attention, for his mother listens to his commands with little fuss, although he cannot stop her discontent that his hair and eyes do not regain the previous shades that she held so dear. she peers upon him with thinly veiled disgust, twisting her fingers in the dark locks as she laments the loss of her precious colours plastered all over her offspring. _he tainted you. look at yourself, kore. you were my pretty girl once upon a time_.

 _i wanted him to taint me_ , he thinks, but does not say. _the minute i saw his awed gaze from across the river, i knew i wanted him to ruin me from the inside out. for he is not like the rest of you. gods needlessly trambling over the humans with no self-awareness for the actions, it made me sick. and then i found him. and now his touch will never fade. and i’m oh-so very pleased with that_.

 _you have grown delusional in my absence_ , he instead settles for, throwing her touch away without a single glance. _for i was never your daughter and i’m not sure now i could even consider myself your son, for you are no mother of mine_. he adjusts the crown of thorns that has no left his head since that man placed it there and tries his hardest to ready himself for the coldest of springs without the only source of warmth he ever felt no longer by his side. _soon_ , he promises himself.

by the time san returns to reality, he has woken yunho up with his fit of choking. he manages to barely just grab all of the petals in a clenched fist before the other can notice, but he can barely speak by the time his roommate reaches his shaking form. he spends the day swaddled in blankets and under constant supervision from the one that is making him sick in the first place, even if seonghwa doesn’t know it yet. seonghwa frets by his bedside, diligently checking his temperature to make sure he doesn’t have a fever, making sure to keep his sore throat soothed with enough water. san wants to reach up and pull him down and kiss him till he can no longer breathe from the petals filling his throat. 

until that point, things hadn’t seemed too bad. since he hadn’t crossed the line into letting any of the members know of his strange ailment, something he considered an accomplishment considering the circumstances, he thought he could cover up this for months to come. but that night had been the tipping point off the edge. the sense of mourning in his dream had overpowered everything. the visions were rougher, faded and desaturated, and he remembers less of it now, just his hands desperately clinging to another figure as his eyes lost focus. 

_as our existence turned to myth, they forgot us_ , the man whispers. _but i have never forgotten you_.

 _they made you out to be the villain of this story_ , he murmurs back. _and i will not disappear before i make sure the truth comes to light_.

 _they no longer believe in us. we’re fading away_ , the man reaches out, the curve of his jaw held gently by icy fingers. _i don’t think we have much time left in us, darling_.

 _i believe in you. shouldn’t that be enough?_ he laughs wetly, tears stinging the corner of his eyes. _i always keep my promises. if we cannot be together now, then we shall be side by side in another life. i am not losing you forever_.

wooyoung comes across him sleep-walking. he had collapsed to the kitchen floor, hands stained red, fingers rubbed raw from digging deep into the few pomegranates he had torn out of the fridge, his palms overflowing with seeds. a pitiful attempt to clasp onto what had allowed him to return to the lover he only knows in his dreams. he was shaken awake, had taken one look at the mess that clung to his hands and began shaking, unsure and unaware of how he had even managed to get here. it’s not something he can explain away so easily. at least he didn’t choke on the flowers picked from the garden that is his lungs in front of wooyoung. it’s a small victory, when he’s letting out pitiful whimpers into his best friend’s shoulder, but he’ll take it. 

the company books him therapy sessions a day later, nervous about the sudden breakdown one of the members seems to be going through. he keeps tight-lipped about the dreams and the flowers, unwilling to let go of the secret he imagines he’ll take to his grave, but allows himself the comfort of venting more normal worries. it’s not exactly a surprise when they diagnose san with anxiety, although he can’t even begin to explain some of the many concerns fuelling his messy state of mind. his friends hover around him, hongjoong holding his hand through the few music show stages they have left, and it eases the creeping sense of fear just a little bit.

but something bigger is about to begin, he just doesn’t know it yet.

-

it had all started with coughing up flower petals, but it’s progressing now, growing, malforming even further, till san has obtained something that seemed impossible. something is definitely wrong with him, alright. he’s not quite sure that he’s not just suffering from a hyper realistic hallucination, although the others too are beginning to catch onto how the plants around the door (and around san, more specifically) are aging out of control. 

it’s morning now, but it feels a little different this time around. his eyes had not opened to more petals across his pillow. there is no taste of metallic blood coating his tongue. no dream followed him slipping to the realm of sleep, just an empty void of darkness that had swallowed him whole and left him slightly calm and yet wholly uneasy at the same time. it’s strange how the lack of what left him bruised and battered and shaking so violently feels the opposite of comforting. san is so used to it now, the flowers and the dreams and the almost nightmares, that he feels as if he’s strayed into unknown waters, his whole world tilted on its axis. 

he’s gained something else in the dream’s place at least. san rises from his bed, muscles complaining at the movement since he’s still a little aching from the hours of practice the day prior. there’s a tenseness confined in his chest as he eyes up the succulent by the window that yunho had placed there just before the plans for their comeback had been set in motion. it’s a neglected thing, sickly and withering from the lack of time anyone had to pay it any notice, the edges turning a soft shade of brown. unwarranted sympathy fills san and he brushes the tip of his finger over the nearest leaf, watching it turn a healthy shade of green as it returns to life beneath his touch. it’s not a new development, but he’s still not used to this and he gasps a little in dull shock.

it gradually became a reality. it had occurred a few times in their dressing rooms, through the hallways of their company and in the cafes he and seonghwa like to frequent on their days off. he passes flower pots on window sills and little buds sprouting on store fronts and they bloom even just by being in his presence. the others had pointed it out, confused about how flowers that had been wilting and half-dead had suddenly bursted into vibrant colour, but san had always ignored it. it must have been a trick of the light, he’d always attempt to justify it as, trying his best to remain oblivious to the incoming sense of dread. then they had been filming one day. there was grass and san had toed off his shoes for his own comfort and all was well till he felt stems start to sprout beneath his feet. he had peered down and tried not to exclaim in irritation when he realised that the minute he touched the dirt, daisies sprung in that spot. 

it’s just san’s luck that these oddities don’t stop coming. it takes all of his energy to not completely lose himself to his bitterness. the sadness that had taken over had never settled, but only incited a burning inside of san that would never be extinguished. he’s resentful and he knows it far too well. the dimpled smiles are less forthcoming these days, swapped for acidic frowns that he can’t help but be aware of his friend’s reactions to. san doesn’t want to worry them, has always strived to never be a burden on their shoulders, but no longer can he continue pretending that his life isn’t entirely fucked up. 

he rubs a fist over tired eyes as he gently pushes the door to his and yunho’s shared room, tiptoeing into the nearby kitchen and humming contently when seonghwa comes into view. the dorm seems strangely empty otherwise, considering he can barely hear wooyoung’s high-pitched laughter. their leader is probably still slaving away in his studio, but san can’t put a finger on where the others might be. it’s not weird how unsettled san feels without them constantly by his side, even if it’s a little pathetic. sue him, he’s a little emotional ever since he convinced himself he might be going crazy. “morning, hyung,” he murmurs, voice soft with fatigue. 

seonghwa turns his way from where he’s preparing breakfast. he looks softer than usual, clad in an oversized cardigan that falls off one shoulder, hair messy as if he’s only just woken up. he’s also smiling, lovingly, full of the warmth he is always willing to direct to his members. seonghwa’s affection always smothers san, not that the eldest is trying to and not that san even minds. being blanketed in seonghwa’s warmth is a pleasing experience, despite the fact that its fertilising the vines embedded into san’s lungs. the edges of seonghwa’s face haven't smoothed with time and the changes that had come on overnight haven’t disappeared, but behind the sharpness of dark eyes is the tenderness that makes butterflies flutter in san’s ruined chest. “good morning, sannie.”

san returns seonghwa’s smile with one of his own, although its muted and subdued in comparison. it’s too early in the day for san’s more bubbly nature to rear its head, not that his squeaky laughter has been making much of an appearance these days. he heads towards the sink, eager to grab a glass of water to soothe the constant soreness that never seems to stop spreading through his throat, but he instead hears seonghwa’s sharp intake of breath as san halts in his step. he doesn’t understand the reaction at first, but all of a sudden san feels rooted to the spot he’s in, an overwhelming feeling pounding through his chest, wrecking havoc amongst his insides as he coughs harshly. 

“hyung? what’s wrong?” san tries to ask, thinking it’s a little weird how hoarse his own voice sounds. then he realises something is spilling past the weak dam that is the lines of his lips, his chin coated in a thick wetness, and he peers down just to see blood dripping down his white shirt. huh, that stain is going to be a pain to get rid of, he has enough time to absentmindedly think before he’s choking, suffocating on something that had risen through his respiratory system without any notice. 

“san-ah!” seonghwa calls out in shock, dropping whatever he’d been making to rush to san’s side, curling an arm around his back to stop him from swaying over and crashing to the floor. san’s shaking hand clutches at seonghwa’s shirt, probably messing up the clean fabric with the evidence of his undoing that is stuck to his fingertips. he pants desperately, acutelty aware that this is the worst of it that san has been faced with. yes, he’s suffered night and day with every type of flower from dandelions to peonies, from roses to violets, from poppies to lilies, escaping the prison of his rib cage. but whatever is coming up now is different, far too different, enough that his weak form can barely stand it. 

“breathe for me, darling,” seonghwa tries to soothe him, but san’s having a difficult time between the fact that seonghwa is calling him darling in that deep tone that always steals his breath away and the root that is currently lodged in his throat, crawling its way free by digging its rough edges in san’s flesh. “hey, it’s going to be okay, sannie.” it’s another attempt to try and calm him down, even though everything is the opposite of okay right and clearly seonghwa knows that since he looks like he’s on the verge of a breakdown. san can only let out a gargled noise in response. 

there’s a pain spreading across the back of his skull and he claws at his own throat for air, head pounding with the memories of someone who is san but also isn’t at all at the same time. san doesn’t remember managing to cough it up, only the feeling of seonghwa patting his back and nudging the damp hair out of his eyes, but then suddenly he can breathe again and the thing is lying limp on the ground. it, whatever it is, is dripping blood onto the once spotless carpet. it’s a mangled creature, a frankenstein of petals in different shapes and sizes, and the sight of it has san wincing. he spits out the few thorns that have been left behind to stick to his tongue, still lightly gagging in the aftermath, only held up on his knees by seonghwa’s strong embrace. 

san almost expects seonghwa, to say something, yell out any combination of words that is filled with confusion, because god knows, anyone else would have no idea what is happening when one of their members manages to choke up a bouquet. but he knows better now, he realises in a split second, clarity filling his once hazy mind. instead, seonghwa is looking down at him with such unfiltered hope in his gaze. and san - this newer san, two halves of the same whole finally reunited, two people who have lived very different lives but are still choi san all the same - thinks he knows what the other is so earnestly hoping for. 

seonghwa leans forward, wiping at the corner of san’s mouth with his sleeve, and san would protest since the other is ruining his clothes when he always hates anything being unclean. but then seonghwa sinks into him, licking into the mouth that has missed this man’s corruption, and san lets out a little choked noise. there’s still a little blood left on his teeth but seonghwa doesn’t seem to mind and san can’t find it in him to care either, not when this kiss makes him feel more alive than he has in weeks. seonghwa tastes faintly of something dark, like wilted flowers blooming across his tongue, of ash and smoke. it’s both unfamiliar and all too familiar at once and san pushes into it, a lazy and languid thing that sends him spiralling. seonghwa’s fingers stroke over the curve of his spine, gentle, unassuming. 

“you’re trembling,” seonghwa murmurs when he pulls back, his own voice quivering as much as san’s hands that are twisted in the woolen fabric of his cardigan. he cups san’s face in his hands and leans in to nose over the curve of his cheek. it’s a simple kind of affection that gets san’s heart racing, something that had been absent for so long except in the dreams that had centered on the man in front of him without san even realising. “but you remember now, don’t you?”

“i missed you,” san answers, pushing his face into seonghwa’s gentle touch, little droplets of tears still staining the edges of his eyes. he didn’t miss seonghwa, not when they were constantly side by side, san eagerly swept into seonghwa’s orbit, but he did miss the lover who he’d been torn apart from for decades. it’s a little hard to see it, that seonghwa and hades are one and the same, when neither he nor seonghwa are clad in their crowns, but san loves them both in equal measures. “you’ve been here for me this whole time and yet i still missed you so much.”

“my persephone,” seonghwa breathes out, fingers tangled in the strands of hair resting over san’s nape, lips ghosting over the freckles on san’s neck. san’s breath hitches involuntarily and he finds that he never wants to get up from the kitchen floor. he just wants to stay crumpled here forever in seonghwa’s line of sight, his skin lighting up a light shade of pink under the intimacy he’ll have to grow used to all over again.

“yours,” san agrees without much thought, still sniffling through a couple of tears. he desperately needs a shower and a new shirt, the soaked through material already clinging uncomfortably to his chest, but he just slumps forward into seonghwa’s neck instead. “i’m all yours. i told you i wouldn't be gone forever, didn’t i?”

“it took us both long enough,” seonghwa sighs, tugging san up into his lap and holding his waist in a vice grip as if the thought of separating hurts. san doesn’t do anything but sling his arms around seonghwa’s neck. they can afford a little time like this, clinging desperately to each other, still a little scared that they’ll fade away without warning. “but you’re here and you remember. that’s all that matters.”

 _i’m never leaving you again_ , san swears. _we were together in our first lives and we’ll be together in our last_.


	2. hongsan a/b/o + gang au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _notes:_ gang au, alpha/beta/omega dynamics, alpha hongjoong, omega san, friends with benefits  
>  _word count:_ 6.6k  
>  _rated:_ m  
>  _cw:_ au-typical discrimination, mentions of blood and death, smut but not too explicit? 
> 
> is this still technically san-centric if it’s in hongjoong’s pov 🤔 i guess i’ll stretch the meaning of san-centric to include any fic where’s he’s in the main pairing 
> 
> i intended to keep the oneshots here family friendly bc i don’t often write smut anymore, but my experience with a/b/o is limited mainly to explicit fics and as a result, the sex at the end of this was kind of inevitable. it’s short and vague enough that it only really warrants an m rating, since i can’t write the word c*ck now without wanting to die

the pirate king is a terrifying figure to the people of seoul. 

his gang had been all of a sudden ravenous, tearing through the long already accepted structure of the crime infested streets, all with kim hongjoong at the helm. it had been unexpected, but the man himself was anything but predictable and the other gangs nearby had slowly withered away beneath his wrath.

but, most say in hushed whispers that is not him you should fear, but rather the black cat always curled up on his lap. 

-

their story begins in the pouring rain of a september night.

there is a shivering little kitten on the street corner. at least, hongjoong thinks that’s a solid comparison. the sweater swallowing the boy’s tiny frame is covered in tears, barely held together, and the boy too looks as if he’s close to falling to pieces, the left side of his face battered and bruised. 

the closer hongjoong steps, the more that gentle scent thickens in the autumn air. a defenseless omega, huh. it’s a sad sight to witness, although not uncommon around these parts. hongjoong has never particularly seen himself as a good man, but he has solid enough morals to try and help in these kind of cases. 

hongjoong’s probably not the most comforting figure to see approaching in the pitch black. he’s small, yes, but he’s pretty sure there’s still blood coating the edges of his hair from the last job he was sent on. still, he can’t walk away from this and he tries to ignore the pitiful little whimper the boy lets out when he gets too close. 

hongjoong drops to his knees beside him, keeping a far enough distance that the omega won’t be sent into an immediate panic by his presence. up close, he realises the boy is actually quite pretty behind the bruises, with a sharp jawline that does not match the defeated edge to his warm brown eyes. he’s shivering too, barely protected from the cold, and hongjoong winces in sympathy. 

“you alright, kid?” hongjoong’s tone isn’t exactly the most friendly and it’s probably a little insensitive, but it’s not like he’s ever had anyone in his life to truly take care of. he’s not particularly sure how to be tender, especially when everyone he’s offered a helping hand to had escaped the minute they could. hongjoong has never blamed them for that. he’s not exactly the most friendly of figures, not when he was born and bathed by hands that only knew blood money.

“what do you think?” the boy croaks. his voice is hoarse, most likely from overuse. hongjoong doesn’t want to think about what injuries might be hidden beneath his sweater if he’s that worn out from screaming. he still has some fight left in him at least, if he’s willing to talk so dismissively to an alpha that likely reeks of blood and grime. 

“i can help you patch up,” hongjoong offers, analytic gaze scanning the boy from head to toe to check for any major injuries. his staring probably isn’t helping the situation, he realises. “nothing more than that,” he promises when he sees the contemplating look on the other’s face, as if he is wondering what payment hongjoong will demand off him the minute his cuts are stitched up. 

“i can smell the blood all over you,” the boy whispers, looking less-than-pleased when a passing car’s headlights illuminate the red staining hongjoong’s deceivingly small hands. he’s had his fair share of fellow alphas laugh in his face when they see the largest gang in seoul’s choice of a negotiator, but their chuckles never last long when they’re staring down the barrel of a gun. hongjoong may not seem that scary on the surface, but clearly the omega is picking up on the potential danger. “why should i trust you?”

“do you have anyone else who could help?” hongjoong raises an eyebrow, slipping one of his burner phones out from the pocket of his jeans. he holds it out in front of him, close enough that the omega could reach for it if he wanted. “if you do have anyone - besides whoever did _this_ to you, at least - then you can call them with it. i won’t interfere.”

“if not,” hongjoong continues, quickly picking up on how the boy hesitates before shaking his head in dismissal. there’s no one left for this one and hongjoong’s stone cold heart almost throbs in sympathy. “then i’m probably your last resort, unless you’re content with getting picked up by one of the predators around here. i’m not asking for trust. i’m just giving you what i can.”

the omega’s bottom lip is quivering in fear and the alpha instincts that he had locked deep away, behind walls and walls of well-built self control, lash out against their chains. alphas usually have two typical reactions to omegas in distress - either the need to care or the want to ruin. hongjoong bites down the former as it begins to rise in his chest. the latter never crosses his mind. 

after a tense minute that almost feels as if it lasts for an hour, the boy nods as a non-verbal sign of not-quite-trust and hongjoong breathes a sigh of relief. he can already hear heavy footsteps nearing, the worst of his kind likely scurrying to catch a glimpse of their next catch. the hunt is on for any alphas in the area who would love to sink their teeth into an unmated omega. 

aware of the oncoming danger, hongjoong hooks his hands beneath the other’s knobbly elbows and drags the unsurprisingly rather light omega up into his arms. “my name is san,” the omega whispers into hongjoong’s ear, head lolling to rest in the dip of his neck as they stumble out of the alleyway. hongjoong doesn’t say a word in response, tongue too heavy with a strange feeling of bitterness, focusing on helping san lean on his shoulder. 

they arrive at the base fairly quickly, even though san is limping on a sprained ankle. it’s nothing more than a metal door barely hanging on its hinges, but the sight of it makes hongjoong’s stomach turn. “keep your arms around me,” hongjoong murmurs a little too harshly, tightening his grip around san’s middle. he’s being anything but discreet in staking his claim, even if it’s a false one, but he knows the men behind this door better than anyone else and barely anything could stop them from harassing fresh meat. 

the door swings open with a kick of hongjoong’s boot and the ones holding down the gates make mocking noises that simultaneously seem praising when they see the battered omega practically collapsed into his grasp. hongjoong can’t help but frown in disgust, although he’s smart enough to keep the fire out of his eyes. they likely believe that he is the one responsible for san’s bruises. he won’t attempt to prove them wrong, not when he can play that to his advantage. 

“finally gotten yourself a pet, eh?” his mentor croons from his spot in the corner, surrounded by drunk and drugged up animals that would sacrifice anything to get a hand on san. “took you long enough, hongjoong-ah.” hongjoong does not know when his respect for this man vanished. he does not know why he even respected him in first place. he bows his head, faking that he holds this man in high regard, as his arm never leaves san’s waist and his eyes never lose their hard edge. 

hongjoong herds san into his room as fast as he can, so he can privately lick his wounds in peace without dozens of alphas breathing down his neck. hongjoong trusts no one in the place, not even the medics that are supposed to treat their patients with kindness, and so his stitches are clumsily-made. san doesn’t seem to mind and hongjoong tries to ignore the shininess of the other’s soft eyes. 

he allows the other to curl up in the small single bunk in the corner of his room, far away from the weak wooden door but close enough to the window that leads out onto a back road, a close escape route if any trouble comes knocking. hongjoong doesn’t sleep, just sits cross-legged on the stained carpet with his pistol already loaded in his lap, trying his best to ignore the dried blood sticking to his skin. the people around here are ruthless. he’ll take no chances. 

hongjoong had not expected it, but he becomes overprotective of san quicker than he would like to admit. every other omega he has stumbled upon in the dead of night he has always sent on their way to a nearby shelter. somehow, san is different. he had clung onto hongjoong’s side when he’d offered him the chance for survival and he won’t let go, stubborn to stay with his saviour, buried beneath warm blankets and stuffing food in his mouth as if he has been starved for months. 

it’s unhealthily codependent for the pair of them to get attached so fast, truly. but hongjoong has never known the gentle touch of another human when he is plagued with flashes of the massacre that rid him of the only relatives he had left. san presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, never asking questions but just gathering hongjoong into his chest. his heartbeat thuds beneath hongjoong’s ear, _thump, thump, thump_ , a reminder that he’s still alive, somehow. 

with san, hongjoong feels emotions that has escaped him since the hands of a child had already become those of a sinner. happiness is a foreign thing, but when san turns his way and smiles that dimpled grin, he feels an imitation of it, not quite solid yet, but still easily washing away the intrusive thoughts that never stop coming. and when san cries out into the darkness, shaking with the intensity of nightmares he still refuses to describe, hongjoong is right by his side, wiping the tears away. 

with this new found comradery, comes more problems than hongjoong could count on his fingers. hongjoong might technically be this gang’s right hand man, but he is not immune to the greed of the lower-ranking men. they prowl around the malnourished omega they have managed to corner, laughing as he attempts to protect himself from the big bad wolves ready for their feast. they stop their tittering when san switches the direction of his kicks and manages to strike one of them hard enough in the leg to go sprawling. they do not have a chance to speak before hongjoong puts a bullet through their heads.

san does not seem to mind the horror splattered across the carpet. sometimes, hongjoong forgets that he was born and raised in the streets of this city too, in the filth with only blood money to his family’s name. no one here is free from crime’s clutches. it’s a harsh reminder that he cannot lock san away from the world who’s clockwork is built from the barrels of guns and the hilts of knives.

still, he drowns san in his scent that night. san purrs under hongjoong’s attention, nuzzling closer into his neck, sprawled over his lap, and the much-needed warmth is pleasant despite the circumstances. he is just doing this for san’s protection, he tells himself. hongjoong’s scent, heavy with most of the sweetness supressed, is a good enough warning for now. he refuses to admit to himself that he is just as starved for touch. and this routine continues, over and over again each morning, their limbs tangled together and san’s content noises echoing through his ears. 

san has a fairly solid grasp of self-defence, evident in how he never flinches before fighting back, but he’s still rough around the edges. hongjoong promises himself that he’ll teach san more tips on close combat. he’ll press a knife into his hands and craft this boy into a weapon. it’s their only way to survive. it becomes necessary when hongjoong’s patience wears thin and his position in that gang is no more. he was sick of it, sick of being complacent to a man with no morals. hongjoong is a villain in his own right but at least he feels guilty about it. 

neither of them are strangers to living in alleyways and they make do with what they can. they’re scrounging for scraps of food now, hongjoong’s measly savings not enough to last more than a few weeks. it’s hard to find a source of money in a city commanded by crime when the gang that runs it all has him blacklisted. san sings in the corner of a dirty bar for whatever cash the owner can scrounge up and hongjoong pickpockets from unsuspecting passersby. it’s not a lot but it’s something, at least. 

luxuries are unknown to them too. they settle in different abandoned buildings each night, moving quickly and silently in the day to avoid any trouble that may come their way. san has started dying his hair as a strange coping mechanism for their tough situation. it’s a patchworked canvas of whatever slightly out-of-date and mostly used hair dye he can scavenge from any dumpsters. hongjoong, in turn, hasn’t cut his hair in months and the tangled strands falls awkwardly far past his neck. 

san somehow manages to spiral into heat one night. he forms a shoddy nest out of the few blankets they have and one of hongjoong’s more oversized jackets. san’s body isn’t healthy enough to stand most of the usual symptoms and he spends most days curled up in pain, clutching at his own stomach. he still lets hongjoong hold him close, spoon-feeding him some of the rations they have gathered as san’s fingers curl into his shirt to keep himself grounded. 

sometimes, hongjoong is forced to fight off other alphas who’ve stumbled upon the pair with just his claws and teeth, since they ran out of bullets three weeks ago. it’s the most useless he’s felt in years. he tears out the throat of a man who comes a little too close for comfort and then he brushes away san’s pained tears with bruised and blood-stained fingers. the heat takes too long to break and they are both exhausted by the end of it. 

months pass with little change. no one blinks an eye at the alpha and omega huddled together under a store front, until there’s suddenly a man holding an umbrella over their heads. hongjoong’s arm instinctively curls a little bit tighter around san’s shoulder, the boy’s soaked hair leaving streaks of water across hongjoong’s neck as san shivers in his grip. they had bundled themselves into as many blankets as possible but of course it had done nothing to protect their thinning bodies from the pouring rain. 

“do you need any help?” the man asks. he’s an alpha, hongjoong can pick up on that from his scent and the powerful underton to his words, but he can’t sense any immediate danger. the man has a strangely comforting aura around him, of course dominating given his kind, but more like a solid warmth, almost motherly in nature. hongjoong feels a sense of deja vu, as if he was in that man’s position once, reaching his hand out to help someone in need. the man will become attached the minute he sees san’s honest eyes, just like hongjoong was. 

hongjoong’s instincts have never proved him wrong and so he trusts this man, for better or for worse. he’ll realise years later that seonghwa saved their lives that day.

-

“hyung,” san’s voice is persistent, as if the finger delicately tapping against his nose. “stop daydreaming.” he’s whining again and hongjoong smiles, smothering the chuckle he almost wants to let out with another sip of his wine. from across the table, san pouts at him, resting his chin in his palm as his puppy dog eyes do a bad job of glaring. “i’m gonna need your help to find him, you know. you can’t start getting distracted.” 

“sorry,” hongjoong says in return, even though he isn’t sorry at all and san knows that. he has been reminiscing a lot these days, even when he’s in a club full of pounding music and san is tugging at his arm for a sliver of his attention. it’s san’s fault in the first place, really. when hongjoong thinks about how they got here, it’s impossible not to get swept away. and yet he’s always dragged back into reality by the very man clouding his thoughts. as long as it’s san he opens his eyes to, he can’t complain, even though the circumstances aren’t exactly in hongjoong’s favour. 

“wait, i think he’s already here.” san’s voice always gets particularly loud when he’s excited and it’s no different this time as he points not-very-discreetly over to where a tall man is asking for a drink from one of the bartenders. at least they’re tucked away in one of the bar’s vip booths this time, so thankfully no one reacts to san’s shout. the omega had learned to at least be a little more quiet after he loudly pointed out one of their assassination targets in the middle of a public street and they had to chase the bastard for three more blocks than what hongjoong’s legs could handle. 

a man walking into a bar in their territory and being unable to tear his eyes off san isn’t exactly a new phenomenon, but the one who is already shamelessly staring their way is special. all eight of them have been attempting to pry information from their contacts for weeks now, but the informants in one of the other rising gangs in the area had been suspiciously tight-lipped. they needed an easily seduced alpha to waltz in and, of course, the duty had fallen to san to snare him in. 

it’s not like there aren’t alphas out there who don’t prefer their own, or even betas. hongjoong isn’t oblivious to the way some of his gang look at each other and he’s wandered into enough of his friend’s rooms at the wrong time to scar him for life. he’s not particularly swayed any way himself, it’s just that san naturally commands his full focus. but most in this particular trade are traditionally bred through and through, eager to underestimate the beings they can only see as submissive. 

they’ve been slaving over the documents covering the lackeys for weeks in order to figure out their best bet at gaining what they need, so it probably wasn’t hard for san to notice the man. still, hongjoong feels a little put off. he may not truly know what san’s type is when, in all the time they’ve known each other, hongjoong is the only one he’s spent his intimate times with. but the thought of it being someone the exact opposite of him isn’t exactly reassuring. 

“you sure you’re still okay with this?” hongjoong asks, his voice largely drowned out by the music blasted by nearby speakers. the more he thinks about it, the more he realises that it’s less likely that san’s particularly interested in this specific target and more so in the thought of helping lessen the others’ work load. he’s good like that, always hard-working, always refusing to take breaks unless hongjoong convinces him with more out-there methods. 

“hey, if it’s for the gang, i’d do anything,” san leans forward, dimpled smile bright under artificial lighting, the earrings in his lobes glittering gold. he’s ethereal like this, his expression relaxed, as if he’s willing to force open his ribs and bare his heart and soul for all to see. “i’d sell my soul to the devil if i had to. you know that, hyung.” and hongjoong does. he’d do the same for any of the seven that stand beside him. they all would. 

“he looks like an easy one, so i doubt i’ll be gone for long.” san rises from his seat, slipping off the bulky jacket he’d been clad in all night, most likely borrowed from mingi given the size, to reveal his ensemble for the night that emphasises the small size of his waist. hongjoong attempts to distract himself from staring, but it’s a hard task when san looks so distracting, hair slicked back from his forehead and his eyes lined with dark shadow. 

hongjoong isn’t sure how san decides which targets will be the easiest to win over, not when in his own mind they all start to blur together, each and every single one always having eyes that hold the same contempt for omegas. the concern must shine through his carefully crafted mask because san smiles, softer and smaller this time, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “i’ll call for you if things get rough, okay? i know how worried you get.”

he is worried, extremely so. not over the job, since this act has worked the last ten times san promised to snatch information off some easily swayed low lives (and you’d think eventually the other gang leaders would learn to tell their subordinates to avoid ateez’s omega), but over san himself. even so, he’s subdued in his attempts to stop san from going down this route. the other knows best for himself after all, but it will never stop hongjoong’s unneeded concern and the jealousy that burns at the pit of his stomach. “be careful,” he murmurs. 

“it’ll be fine. i’ll get it out of him quickly and come right back. after all, men will tell me anything if they think i’m just a doll.” there’s nothing self-deprecating about his tone, but hongjoong’s uneasy heart skips a beat at the thought of anyone considering san just a thing to toy around with. before he can say a word, san pecks him on the cheek and wanders off into the crowd. 

at least he’s easy to pick out, considering the sea of people parts easily around san. he strides forward with a confidence to his step that is so unlike the boy who had to lean on hongjoong for support all those years ago, expertly avoiding the blatant staring he always faces. it doesn’t take long for the man they’ve been watching to walk to his side, faking bravado even if everyone around them is hesitant to approach the omega known for playing with his prey. 

san is the member with the most rumours surrounding him for a reason. he’s intriguing, an enigma to most of the public who look down on those of a specific classification. when hongjoong led the war on the gang that had betrayed him, san being amongst them on an equal status had been a shock to the crime world at large. hongjoong is fairly certain that everyone else had already conformed to the view of omegas as a lesser being, which is probably why they’ve had to save so many from trafficking. but san just can’t help but prove them wrong. 

_crime is an alpha’s game_ , his mentor had once murmured to him, patting him on the back condescendingly for his optimism. his mentor was wrong. san is more ruthless than the whole lot of them, fuelled by his harsh upbringing and the scars littered over all of his limbs. hongjoong has seen him break the necks of disrespectful alphas more times than he could possibly count, and it’s never stopped taking his breath away. they’re both a little fucked up, he realises, if san can walk away from a murder scene without a single scratch and if hongjoong finds that so enthralling. 

san is quick to set the trap. the man already reaches out, tugging with his teeth at the silver chain curling around san’s ear. hongjoong can almost hear the squeaky yet forced giggle that follows. it’s paradoxical. san is clad in all leather, one of his favourite knives strapped around his thigh, boots heavy and probably adding a few inches to height, and yet his smile is sweet like cotton candy. he’s always been this way, can play the part of a timid omega just as well as he can imitate the rough actions of a bloodthirsty alpha.

hongjoong wonders how san can even stomach the push and pull game he’s become a master at. he always wonders if he could be justified in putting a bullet through that bastard’s head, but technically he hasn’t done anything against rules of the land yet. it doesn’t mean that hongjoong is any less offended, even if he doesn’t have the right to be. there’s been speculation for years about the leader and the sole omega of his clan, but while san and hongjoong have never been just friends, there’s always been an invisible barrier preventing them from going too far. getting attached is a bad call, but hongjoong already crossed that line years ago when he allowed six alphas to crawl into his heart and rest alongside the omega already burrowed there. 

as he watches san casually guide the other down a hidden hallway to a back room that is meant to be only for their allies, something indescribable fires up in his chest. yeosang pats him on the back, hiding a smirk as he steals a sip of the drink san left behind, even though his lips curls in distaste. none of their taste has ever particularly matched the omega’s, but that’s what makes life with him around so interesting. without san, there would be a lot less mundane debates about random topics that keeps them all from spiralling after a day of work. he’s their tether to reality, whether he knows it or not. 

yeosang’s eyes are amused beyond belief as he scrutinises his leader’s odd expression. “hey, it’s your fault for not talking to him,” he points out and hongjoong can’t help but agree. whatever it is that is happening between them, it blurred the boundaries of friendship long ago. it’s too ambiguous, something that could be solved if he bothered to open his mouth and actually communicate for once, but he’s too much of a coward to face rejection. 

“i know,” he mumbles almost petulantly. “i just wish it was easier to bring it up with him.” both he and san have more emotional baggage than they’d like to admit. their dependence on each other had reached toxic levels at some point in the earlier years of the gang and it had taken seonghwa’s intervention to snap them out of it. that lingering possessiveness had never completely faded and it’s left hongjoong feeling wrong, slightly out of place, like letting himself have san wholly was some sort of crime in and of itself. 

“he chose you out of everyone to spend his heats with. that’s got to mean something. he trusts you above everyone else, hyung.” yeosang points out and hongjoong knows that, knows how san confides in him more than anyone else, evident in how he only lasted as yunho’s roommate for a week he went crawling back into hongjoong’s bed to hide away from his nightmares. but relationships are rarely exclusive in this business, not when so much of gaining allies and trade links relies on shady practices. hongjoong doesn’t want any of that. he wants san all to himself. it’s not exactly a fun realisation to have when everyone also seems so easily dragged into san’s orbit, enthralled by the soft tone of his voice and the sharp tongue that comes along with it. 

hongjoong just allows them to fall into an uncomfortable silence before yeosang sighs and takes the chance to run off to be with wooyoung per usual, patting him on the shoulder sympathetically as he walks by. he is forever thankful for any of his member’s efforts in comforting him, but there is nothing they could say that could calm the storm swirling through his mind that grows ever more ravenous when eventually that man stumbles out from the hallway, eyes wide as if he has seen heaven itself. 

the crowd easily slinks out his way as hongjoong decides that checking on san is his main priority instead of sulking in the corner, although hongjoong is convinced it is less so his reputation making everyone avoid his eyes and rather the cloying scent that makes itself known as his bitterness rises. when the door clicks shut behind him, he finds san distracted, his dark make-up smudged beyond belief as he wipes at it uselessly with the back of his hand. “uh, this was the long-lasting one too, it better not stain.” san raises his head, smiling when he realises that it’s hongjoong who has entered and not that man back to complain after realising he has been swindled. 

hongjoong reaches up and scrubs at the mark around san’s lips with his thumb, trying his best to not sound too irritated when he questions the other. “what happened?” he gives up on trying to help the omega and instead backs off to stare unabashedly at the pout on the other’s face, san still trying and failing to fix the mess that has been made of his face. “actually what did you do to him? he looked like he’d reached nirvana or something.”

“just the usual,” san shrugs, which translates into making out with whoever he’s trying to fool until they think he’s serious about meeting them again, when in fact he’s planning their entire gang’s downfall. “took a bit longer than usual, but eventually he caved. i got the coordinates for their next big delivery. he didn’t even suspect a thing when i took his phone, since he thought i was giving him my number - and don’t worry, i know better than to do that. doubt it would have been worth it anyways.” none of them even seem to be worth it, since san never gives any of them the chance to tumble into his sheets. they live together, san and he, still cramped up together like they’re back to being two little strays huddled in the corner of an abandoned building. hongjoong knows that san never brings anyone back home. somehow, he thinks that at least means something.

san’s smile is soft when he notices the slightly put off expression on the alpha’s face, dimples in his cheeks on full display, and he ruffles a hand through hongjoong’s long hair. “i know, i know what you’re going to say. i don’t do this because i think it’s the only thing i’m good at, hyung. you’ve seen me with a knife, after all. i just do it because it’s fun to mess with those asshole’s heads.” _do you think it’s fun to mess around with me_ , hongjoong almost blurts out. he doesn’t mean to be bitter, not when he’s half at fault for the strange grey area between friendship and lovers that the two of them have found themselves stranded in. there must be something about his expression because san tilts his head and frowns. 

“hyung, what’s wrong?” san’s confusion expression is quickly wiped away when hongjoong grabs his wrist and yanks him down. the difference in their statures has always been a pain in moments like this, especially when it’s emphasised by the platform boots san has taken to wearing as of late. hongjoong wishes to steal san’s breath from his shuddering lungs easily but he is forced to strain his neck up uncomfortably and the meeting of their lips breaks after just a second. “oh. you’re _jealous_ aren’t you?”

despite the baiting tone, san’s eyes are already just a little bit glossy and he chases after hongjoong’s touch, whining involuntarily when hongjoong just presses a kiss against his cheek. no one can manage to make san feel the way hongjoong does, no one can drive him crazy with just a single kiss or a fleeting touch against his sensitive body, and that in itself is intoxicating. san is a drug that hongjoong can’t quit, an addiction that’s gone too far, overloading his senses, but he can’t imagine himself letting go of. 

san doesn’t make a single sound of protest when he’s pushed onto the couch, mouth clenched shut but his eyes screaming with need. san doesn’t like asking for more in the first few minutes, a quality residual from his youth, when sometimes his mind forgets that he’s not back on the streets where being loved and being fucked were two entirely separate things. instead, he pleads with every inch of his already quivering frame and hongjoong always caves in. he lets out a soft little whimper when hongjoong leans in to kiss him again, hand cupping his cheek gently, the thick rings on hongjoong’s hand ice cold against his skin. 

“you’re more overprotective than usual today,” san murmurs before his voice pitches up unnaturally high when hongjoong digs his teeth into the skin behind his ear. his hands scramble to cling onto hongjoong’s shoulder, the press of his nails into his back only creating a dull sensation, muted by the thick material of hongjoong’s jacket. and hongjoong nudges the other’s arms away to shrug it off, popping the buttons quickly to the silk shirt beneath. hongjoong needs it, needs it all, needs san’s nails scratching dark lines down the curve of his spine, needs to feel the sweat soaking his skin, needs to have san’s voice filling his ears till he can’t hear anything but their heartbeats racing in tandem. 

who wouldn’t be overprotective of san, hongjoong thinks. anyone with any sanity left in them would be drawn in defending him when he flashes those brown eyes. hongjoong has seen every side of the omega, from the slick smirks of his public facade to the content smiles that only exist in private, and he adores all of him, from the tip of his hair that still hasn’t quite recovered from excessive bleaching to the lithe legs that curl around his waist to bring him back in, even closer, so that their bodies are tightly held together. 

hongjoong comes alive when the two of them mould together like this, fingertips sparking when he brushes against san’s soft skin. it’s probably not the best moment to convince san that he is worth more than hongjoong’s entire stock of gold, so he’ll keep his mouth shut for now, not wanting to ruin the mood with his usual concerns. but he still can’t quite help himself and the words come out without his consent. “of course i am. everyone always wants you, after all.” _but you only want me, right, san-ah?_ hongjoong thinks but doesn’t say. 

“but i only want you, hyung,” san whispers, as if he could read hongjoong’s mind, and the alpha can feel heat crawling across the bridge of his nose. when he’s fully enveloped in hongjoong’s warmth, san never tells a single lie and it leaves him a little flustered at the blatant admission that seeing san so open like this is for his eyes only. hongjoong etches one more mark into whatever free stretch of skin he can reach before he pulls back to work on unbuttoning the pants that cling so noticeably to san’s thighs. 

“i didn’t think you were an exhibitionist, hyung.” san is trying his best to tease but the effort is lost considering he is panting heavily, breath hitching when hongjoong’s hand slips under his jacket and clamps down over the bare skin of his hip to hold him steady. he feels feverish beneath hongjoong’s touch, already burning with the beginnings of his lust. “seriously, there are cameras in here.”

“i’m sure seonghwa will enjoy the show,” he mumbles, more focused on slipping his fingers down between san’s thighs, the omega making a wounded noise at his gentle prodding. the back of his legs are already coated in slick and hongjoong is admittedly a little smug that he can always manage to rile san up with a steady sense of ease. while his fingers aren’t particularly big and it’s become a mocking point amongst other gangs how tiny he really is, san never seems to mind, especially not when he’s so wet that hongjoong can fill him up with three all at once. “and i’m not into that. i’m just into you.”

“what-” san tries to speak, but his voice is too small and lost in between the mewls he can’t stop from escaping. there’s droll leaking from the corner of his mouth, too. he’s messy like this and hongjoong can’t help but curl another finger against his other three, san’s wrecked insides sucking him in greedily and desperately clenching around the intrusion. his slick is dripping everywhere, so much of it hongjoong can’t believe he isn’t in heat. the scent of him, his omega driven mad by his touch alone, will be imprinted into the cusions for weeks. the thought makes him keen, already driving his fingers into san particularly hard to hear him yelp.

“you do this to me, sannie. i just want you wherever and whenever.” because san is _his_ and he is _san’s_. the world is full of so much treasure for his taking but all he can care about is the wounded boy he picked up from the side of the road. hongjoong dips his head down, pressing his nose over the curve of san’s thigh where his sweet scent is the thickest, and sinks his teeth in there too for good measure. no one except san will get to see this mark, a hidden secret that no one will know except them, unknown to even the alphas that desperately wish for another taste of this omega. 

hongjoong rises once more, fisting a hand through san’s dark hair and dragging him up into a kiss that’s a little more animalistic than either of them are used to. it’s not often that he feels so feral, but it’s as if he’s crafted himself into a wolf staking a claim. he’s never felt particularly territorial before, but it’s as if hongjoong was walking on the edge and suddenly tumbled right over into losing his grip on his rationality. he pushes into san not-so-gently and the omega gasps, a loud and almost wild sound ripping through san’s chest, shaking like a little lamp captured by the big bad wolf. 

slick-soaked fingers are filthying the pristine material of the jacket san hadn’t bothered to take off, but hongjoong can’t find it in him to care as he pulls the other’s thighs up above his hips. san arches into his touch, head smacking into the arm of the couch after one particularly hard thrust, too lost in the pleasure to complain. he desperately paws for hongjoong’s hand, interlocking their fingers together in a tender gesture of trust that does not match the way he’s frantically rolling his hips. this is entirely messy, messy in a way that will leave san sore and yet utterly satisfied, remembering the feeling of hongjoong tearing him apart for days to come as he wanders around his handprints tattooed into his thighs. 

“hyung,” san whines, voice slurred, clawing at hongjoong’s thighs. “please, harder, wan’ it.” he’s so far gone he’s speaking in broken sentences. hongjoong tries not to coo, although san is probably too fucked out to slap him playfully for being condescending. hongjoong wants to push him even further than this, right into being speechless, so out of his mind that the only thing he can do is cling onto hongjoong’s shoulders as the alpha ravages him. he sinks his teeth into san’s neck, a visible spot that even a high collar couldn’t cover up. it’s a reminder that he’d been too much of a coward to do before. he wants to lock them together, so tightly connected that no one could tear them apart. 

“come on, kitten,” he whispers against san’s eagerly parted lips. “i want you purring only for me.”


End file.
